I dreamed last night that I was powerful, able to help others out of their predicaments, able to avoid predicaments myself. I dreamed of flight, high over a mountain untouched by human tread for centuries – carrying my family with me. And in a dark and narrow crevice in the stone, in a pool of dark, still water, I found the entrance to a temple – the temple of a particularly angry goddess, long awaiting someone to unravel her story, give her justice after all this time and thereby free her, and tell the world.

The entrance to the temple looked vaguely Mayan, but the mechanics present were very Indiana Jones: after my Mom, my sister and I waded hesitantly in, the entryway elongated with the sound of stone on stone, underwater, the surface vibrating in a mist of dancing droplets – and this exposed a further doorway, as a skylight opened far, far above us. In the walls around us, old panoramas came to life, telling the story of how the goddess was terribly wronged by her tribe – how her anger and dealings with old powers earned her a bitter death, undeserved (at least according to the disciples who built the temple). And suddenly, a very old man stepped from the panoramas – he had been serving her these many centuries, waiting for a champion who would walk the path of her life and death, to release her. The path started, of course, through the door. The door was black. No light touched it. No light ever had. And the first step on the descent into the underworld required holding one’s breath and swimming underwater through darkness for an unknown distance, to whatever awaited – the old man did not know, nor was it written anywhere.

Wanting nothing to do with this goddess, feeling the hair slowly rising on the back of my neck, I did my utmost to shield my thoughts and keep a pleasantly interested look on my face as I spoke with the old man. I knew (and I knew that he knew) I had the power to unleash this goddess, but I also knew that the world would not like the consequences. Like Pele, but darker, more occult – this goddess was a goddess of revenge, death, destruction, anger…I could see it, could FEEL it, but wasn’t sure the old man could; I was sure he was truly convinced of the injustice of her death and imprisonment, and couldn’t feel the seething darkness of that place. Every instinct screamed for me to get out, GET OUT, but still I played mild and unaware, as I subtly tried to herd my family out the long causeway (which I suddenly knew could shut with a snap, leaving us trapped in the waist-deep cold water in darkness forever), allowing them to touch nothing. And suddenly, I knew as well and with absolute certainty that the final step of the voyage through the black door was death – a blood sacrifice to wake the goddess, given willingly or unwillingly by the champion foolish or devout enough to undergo the journey.

The journey back through the watery causeway was achingly long, extended beyond tolerating by terror, as all the while I made to think about it and return. The spider web remained open, the spider still in hiding. We were able to leave, saying that we would come back. And as I left the doorway, catching a glimpse of the red-eyed goddess out of the corner of my eye, I knew I needed to find a way to bury this place forever.